Rise of the Horde - Chapter 548 - 548
Morning came late in the mountains.
Even when the sun had long risen above the horizon, the Lag’ranna Peaks held to their shadows, the light breaking only in thin, cold shafts through the veil of mist. The Winters’ Army…proud banners of blue and silver once bright and bold…now seemed muted beneath the gray.
Their march had slowed to a crawl.
What had once been a proud column of a thousand strong, moving with music and chatter, now resembled a line of ants creeping warily through the unknown land. Every step was measured, every sound too loud.
At the head of the vanguard rode the Blue Countess, her clean cloak drawn close around her shoulders, her silver circlet dull in the filtered light.
Her expression was calm…regal even…but her eyes betrayed unease. They were sharp, restless, scanning every slope and ridge.
Beside her rode Sir Rhaegar Vance, his armor polished but dusty, his face tight with fatigue.
“My Lady,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low, “our scouts report that the path ahead narrows again before widening toward the foothills. The men are wary…after the last rockfall…”
The Countess turned to him. “We were lucky then, Rhaegar. Had the mages not acted swiftly, we would be dragging half the column from the rubble. I will not risk another such ambush.”
She raised a hand, and a nearby mage…a young woman with frost-white hair tied in a braid…rode forward, bowing her head.
“Lady Eirwyn,” said the Countess, “how far can your detection weave reach?”
“Two hundred paces, my Lady, if I focus,” replied the mage, her hands already aglow with pale blue sigils. “But if I widen it, I lose clarity. I can sense movement, not form.”
“Then focus on the slopes. The orcs will not strike from the open ground.”
Eirwyn nodded, spurring her horse forward, her staff humming with faint energy. Around her, other mages followed suit…an entire cadre moving in rhythm, sweeping the flanks with their incantations. The air shimmered faintly, and for a brief moment, the scent of ozone filled the air.
Behind them, the army moved like a river of iron and color. Infantry trudged through the narrow trails, their boots crunching against muddy soil. Archers carried their bows unstrung, keeping a wary eye on the cliffs above. The supply wagons creaked slowly, oxen snorting clouds of vapor into the morning cold.
The once-confident laughter that had filled the ranks days ago was gone. Now there were only murmurs.
“You think they’re still up there?”
“Orcs don’t give up easy.”
“My brother fought them last year…says they move like smoke.”
“Then we best pray the wind stays with us.”
Even the officers had quieted. The Countess’ captains spoke in hushed tones as they moved between units, checking formations, ensuring no one strayed too far from the column.
****
By midday, they came upon a pass…a narrow cut between two cliffs, the ground littered with stones that looked too freshly disturbed for comfort.
Sir Rhaegar raised a hand. “Hold!”
Instantly, the horns sounded, and the army ground to a halt.
The Countess dismounted, her boots crunching against gravel as she knelt to examine the rocks. “Fresh movement,” she murmured. “No moss, no marks. They’ve fallen recently.”
One of the engineers approached, bowing. “Could be the wind, my Lady. These slopes aren’t stable.”
Her cold gaze lifted. “And it could also be a hand that loosened them.”
At that, silence fell again.
She stood, brushing dust from her gloves. “Send the skirmishers ahead…lightly armed, no wagons. I want eyes on the next mile before we move another foot.”
Sir Vance nodded, signaling a group of scouts who quickly advanced up the path. Their movement was swift and silent, their leather armor blending with the terrain.
Above, unseen to any of them, Kruk’thar and Throk lay hidden among the rocks…shadowed figures against stone. Their tusks were bound in cloth to dull their shine, their bodies smeared with gray dust.
“They move slower now,” murmured Throk, his voice a low growl. “Like wounded elk.”
Kruk’thar’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Good. Let them crawl. The slower they move, the longer they stay by the mountains.”
He peered down at the blue banners, eyes narrowing. “But not yet. Not until the chieftain gives the word.”
The two Verakh captains slipped back into the shadows, leaving only the faint echo of gravel underfoot as the mountain swallowed them whole.
*****
Hours passed before the scouts returned, breathless but unharmed.
“No movement ahead, my Lady,” one reported. “The path clears after half a mile. No traps. No enemies.”
The Countess’ gaze lingered on them for a long moment before she finally nodded. “Good. But we move slow. Shields up on both flanks. Mages…alternate your wards every half turn. I want this pass crossed by dusk.”
And so, the army crawled onward.
The sound of boots and hooves echoed between stone walls, a steady rhythm broken only by the clink of armor and the soft hum of magic. The cold air carried the tension like a living thing.
When dusk came, they made camp upon a small plateau overlooking the valley below. Fires were few and carefully shielded, the glow barely visible from a distance.
Around her tent, the Countess’ officers gathered, faces drawn and weary.
“They will strike again,” Sir Avelle said grimly. “You saw how they moved last time…quick, precise, unseen. They’re testing us, my Lady.”
“I know,” the Countess replied softly. “And I will not let them test us again unprepared. Tonight, no one sleeps easy. Double the sentries. Rotate the mages in pairs. I want eyes on every ridge.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
As the officers dispersed, the Countess turned her gaze to the mist-shrouded horizon.
For the first time since her march began, her confidence wavered…not out of fear, but the realization that this enemy was unlike the orcs she had faced before.
“They fight as the mountains breathe,” she murmured to herself. “Slow, patient… until they crush.”
*****
The morning air at Yohan’s Watch tasted of tar and smoke. Cords of timber creaked under ropes; wargs, thyrians and ogres snorted in the yards; the din of hammers on metal and stone made the earth feel like a living thing. The fortress, a ring of palisades and earthen ramparts, had become a furnace of industry … not a symbol of pride but a tool of survival. Here, in the shadow of the Lag’ranna crags, Yohan’s horde built not out of vanity but necessity.
Khao’khen walked the ring road. He did not ride; a leader among these tribes earned his right by shadowing the work as much as the fighting. Around him moved a tide of different shapes: gangly goblins with grease-smeared faces and quick hands, squat trolls lurching with baskets of clay and stone, hulking ogres bearing raw timbers on their shoulders, and long columns of orc warriors…leaner, harder, tempered by physical labor. Each species had its place and its task; none performed it as a favor. That interchange was the covenant.
Near the main smithy, where iron met flame beneath a vaulted shelter of hide, the sound of pounding metal rang out. The present forge-master … a broad-faced troll called Morr with iron-streaked hair and a laugh like an anvil … oversaw a team of goblin tinsmiths heating scrap and fashioning crude but effective fittings for pikes and spearheads.
“Heat that billet more, you stinkers,” Morr barked in a deep rumble. The goblins skittered, flinging firewood into bellows, their small hands deft despite the flames. “If you make soft steel, you feed our enemies their supper!”
Aro’shanna moved among the smiths with jars of black sap and bone glue. She was a bit large in stature but carried with her the hush of ritual. She paused beside an ogre who hammered a massive cleaver and pressed a palm to its haft, muttering a charm to settle the temper of the metal. The blade’s edge gleamed, not just from the hammering but from the oil she smeared … a compound that smelled of smoke and bitter herbs. It would sting the eyes of any who breathed its
The witch doctor Rakh’ashta squatted nearby, mixing a vat of thick, greenish gel. His eyes were wide and unfocused from the fumes his own potions emitted. He grinned when they called him over like that. “Ah…my favorite,” he crooned. “A little of this, a little of that. The iron will keep the taste of death fresh in a man’s mouth.”
Aro’shanna rolled her eyes but did not speak against him. In this camp, even the mad parts of the horde had value and voice. Their respect was earned by craft, by cunning, by deeds.
*****
Discipline here was different from the rigid files of the knights or the cultured cadence of the Countess’ mages. Yohan’s order came from shared hardship and a living law: do not let your kin die for your vanity. That made the horde rough but not cruel, efficient but not cruelly mechanical.
Khao’khen’s commanders began the morning drill in the inner yard. Orcish warbands formed into wedge, shield-wall, and pike-hedge; the goblins practiced counter-mobility tactics and packing charges under tight supervision; trolls demonstrated how to set trembling earthworks and tamp clay ramparts with their quick hands; ogres practiced shock entry sequences, timing their charges to the beat of drums so that a charge, a breach, and a charging ogre would collide like thunder.
In the central tent, a war council gathered midmorning. A roaring pyre threw shadowed faces onto the canvas. The decision with regard to the Blue Countess’s southern host had been made the night before: strike swiftly, strike hard, and force the enemy to choose between fighting in column or fleeing in disarray. But first there were practicalities: supply trains to arrange, scouting networks to expand, and…vital timing.
Khao’khen sat at the head, his presence a low, steady gravity. At his right hand was Sakh’arran, at his left was Gur’kan and Trot’thar. Drae’ghanna, Rakh’ashta, Aro’shanna, and a cohort of smaller clan chieftains completed the ring.
“Report,” Khao’khen said.
Kruk’thar’s two runners returned then, breathless, and fell to a knee. Their report was blunt and precise: the Winters host had been probed, they had wards, a mage-corps, and tight discipline; a direct night raid had failed but taught lessons: the enemy’s detection spells were focused, but limited in range and timing. They’d find openings … not wide ones, but narrow windows where the horde’s sudden attacks would bite.
Trot’thar unfolded a crude map of the passes. He tapped a route with a chapped finger. “We make our move here,” he said. “A narrow defile two days march north. The humans will have to pass in close order. We force them to stack, to funnel.”
Sakh’arran rumbled, “And the ogres will smash the lead. The trolls push the earth. The goblins light the fires.”
“Not so fast,” Khao’khen said. “We want them wounded, confused. Not drowned in straightforward blood. Sakh’aran will hold the main warbands at the ridge…ready to close. Trot’thar and his skirmishers will harass and slow. Rakh’ashta…your warriors will plant fires with a twist. Hekoth…Gunn…your spells, can you mask our movement?”
Hekoth’s, fingers inked and eyes bright, nodded. “We can veil the ridge lines in heat-haze and reflame the scent of other animals. We’ll make them chase ghosts.”
Khao’khen reached for his skin flask and drank, eyes sweeping the faces of leaders. “Discipline through respect,” he said slowly. “We do this together. Each tribe…its task. Each orcs…his honor. No looting now. No ransacking. Hunger feeds the wolves, not the Watch. You steal from your kin, you answer to me first.”
A low, near-sullen murmur…the sort that acknowledged both difficulty and assent…rolled through the council. The orcs respected strength; the horde respected order born of care for the clan. Khao’khen’s rule wasn’t a lash but a covenant: the chieftain who kept your family fed and the clan’s children safe could ask for your life. He had earned that currency.
****
Logistics took up the afternoon. Troll engineers strapped ropes across steep slopes and practiced hauling netted logs in teams. Goblins trained on pack animals, inventing harnesses that allowed trolls and ogres to pull siege frames without chafing the beasts’ bellies. Rations were sorted; yams, salted meat, and the sharp-smelling root-ale were portioned. The witch-doctor’s jars of pungent salves, explosive oils, and fetid-smoke bombs were packed into clay jars and labeled in crude glyphs.
Gur’kan supervised the war-grooms. Thyrians do not march well for days, he said…make them eat. Give them meat and proper rest. Let them sleep. A hungry Thyrian is a dangerous beast, but so is an angry one that cannot run. He took the time to bark orders with the tenderness of a father: a Thyrians might, though primal and crude, could be coaxed into the touch of a pack-smith who repaired harnesses for a living.
By sunset the horde hummed with the slow efficiency of a machine made by hands steeped in the old war-rhythms of the mountains: not pretty, but effective. The palisade watch-towers were manned by mixed teams…troll skirmishers with orc guards, goblins posted beneath the platforms as living buttresses.
When Khao’khen walked the outer ring at dusk he saw not the ragged hordes of song, but a force that had learned the crafts of fort, forge, and field. He smiled once, a small thing, and the smile passed like weather across his face.
“Tomorrow the mountains will sing,” he told Gur’kan, who sloshed broth at his side. “Let it be a song of breaking.”
